


The Gap

by deadlybride



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Episode: An Invisible Thread, Gen, Heroes: Volume 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan isn't feeling himself, lately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gap

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely based off of the ending of Volume 4 of Heroes, and so will make no sense unless you've seen it. Could sort of be considered a companion piece to another of my stories, "You Are Nathan."
> 
> Originally posted to LJ.

Sometimes Nathan wakes up in strange places.

Occasionally he jerks upright on the couch in his office in the Capitol with faint memories of horrible dreams. The dreams are so strong sometimes he can almost taste the blood in his mouth. He keeps imagining horrific deaths, awful ways the abilities he's tried so hard to protect could go wrong. In the darkest moments he thinks maybe it wouldn't be so bad to put a word in the President's ear, to go back to the way it was – but then he remembers the look on Claire's face, on his mother's. On Peter's. He takes a deep breath, then, and makes a conscious decision: he will not betray them again. This is his only chance for redemption.

Once, Nathan woke up on the subway in New York. He'd been in town to visit his mother, to take the mayor out to dinner. Schmoozing is one of the daily trails of his life. Part and parcel of the path he's chosen. That time, when he opened his eyes he was sitting between a delicate Japanese woman and two men speaking rapidly in Spanish and he had no idea of how he'd gotten there. He looked down at himself, at clothes he didn't recognize, and when he caught her eye the Japanese woman smiled at him, hand resting gently on her swollen stomach.

"Are you all right?" she asked. Her accent was similar to Ando's.

He swallowed, looking around again. "What train is this, ma'am?"

She blinked up at him. "It's the 4:25 to Queens." She tilted her head at his confusion. "You got on about four stops ago, don't you remember?"

He straightened in his seat. The Indian man across the aisle glanced up at the motion, then did a double-take. "Aren't you – aren't you Senator Petrelli?"

The Japanese lady looked between them with mild puzzlement, then growing recognition. Her smile dimpled. The Indian man's eyes were wide, his mouth half-open.

"My name is…"

He paused, then passed a hand over his face. He smoothed the front of the grey button-down (and where had that come from?) and tried on a smile. Because these were his constituents, weren't they? His.

"I'm Nathan Petrelli," Nathan said. The Japanese lady clapped her hands together, delighted, and the Indian man grinned, holding out his hand to shake. Nathan took it with the firm handshake he'd always given.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," the man said.

Nathan smiled. When he got back to Manhattan he found his phone in his office at the house. He called his assistant, who told him video of his subway sojourn had been posted on YouTube. He told his secretary to spin it as a senator communicating with the common people. His approval rating rose two points.

Sometimes Nathan looks at people he knows and there's this faintest… taint. Like suspicion, maybe. Maybe like fear. He sometimes gets the strongest sensation that _he must not be found out_ , as though… as though he had some huge secret to hide. Obviously there's the flying thing – he still doesn't know why Peter loves it so much, because no matter how accepted they might become Nathan knows they're still going to be considered freaks – and it's probably best that he hide that from his secretary, his assistant, the head of his PR firm.

When he's with his mother he feels guilty about the things he hides. It's an ancient, primordial urge: to trust his mother, to give of himself to her, to accept her love unconditionally. There are times when she gets a glint in her eye, talking about their new company (or Company: the gravity with which it's said seems to deserve the capitalization) and he thinks his mother is probably quite crazy. All of the things that have happened in her life, all of the death and manipulation and terrible plans with terrible consequences – it would be enough to drive anyone insane.

She has started telling him about her nightmares. They have lunch in the best dining rooms Washington has to offer, all mahogany and silver and golden shafts of afternoon light, and in these exquisitely crafted places, over platters of oysters and three hundred dollar champagne, she tells him her stories. Angela Petrelli has been a force in New York and Washington for a score of years and it feels odd, terribly odd, to suddenly be her confidant. She will look at him over her glass with those enormous dark eyes and he feels… distorted. His suit feels too big, his hands too large, and the caviar spoon clumsy in his fingers. He'll find himself staring at the barely perceptible weave in the tablecloth and find that he's lost whole minutes.

"Nathan, are you feeling all right?" his mother will say. It has become her new favorite question.

He drags his attention back to her, but it can be an effort. Sometimes he has to clear his throat several times, because he knows if he speaks he will not sound like himself. He doesn't want to worry her. "I'm fine, Ma. Why wouldn't I be?"

After a few weeks, he starts making excuses to his mother via his secretary. She seems just as glad to not have to deal with Angela Petrelli every other day and handles things quite efficiently.

The truth is, he hasn't been feeling all right. Peter has been distant, painfully so, for months. Nathan knows it's his fault. True, Peter can hold a grudge better than anyone he knows, but – what he did was unforgivable. He knows this.

That doesn't stop him from feeling almost… murderous, sometimes. He'll call Peter – generally the only contact he's allowed, lately – and they'll have winding discussions long into the night which carefully avoid mention of anything at all important. It's just like when Nathan was stationed overseas and Pete was in grade school. He'd call from base if he got the opportunity and Pete would always be so excited, chattering on and on about some girl in his class or how hard his English homework was or when are you coming home, Nathan? I miss you.

Peter doesn't talk about that anymore, but now Nathan gets details about the daily life of a paramedic. How Pete's team got called out thirty-seven times on his last shift – the perils of being an EMT in the greatest city on Earth – and how he'd managed to save… almost all of them. In return, Nathan tells stories about the boredom of meetings on the hill, about the constant wrangling back and forth between House and Senate and the maneuvering that comes with having one party in control of the legislature and another in control of the White House. The truth is, he doesn't always find Pete's stories all that interesting. He knows Peter isn't always interested in his. Sometimes he gets so angry at – at the  _futility_  of it all. It's no use begging for forgiveness, he thinks, his ring cutting into his hand where it's clutching the phone. This doesn't even count as begging – it's a pale imitation of it, a shameful sidestepping of the issues. Pathetic. But he tries, because he has to. He has to get Peter to trust him again. So he calls, and calls, and after a few weeks Peter calls him first. He knows his brother –  _knows_  him, in a way no one else does – and he understands that he has slipped behind those fragile defenses. It gives him a sense of heady triumph. In this, at least, he is winning.

He has little to no contact with the rest of –  _us_. He tries to refer to them that way even in his head, to remind himself of whose side he should be on. On dark nights he thinks that… whatever they are, this group of special people, they're the enemy. That he should look out only for himself and go fuck the consequences, no matter that it would lose him everything he loves. Because when his mother stares at him across the table or Peter's voice dwindles into silence on the other side of the phone or when he thinks about the revulsion on Tracy's face – on Heidi's – on Matt's – on Claire's – when they told him just what they thought of him… It's appallingly maudlin, but he just  _knows_  he can only be safe by himself.

Four weeks after Sylar died Nathan wakes up in his old bed in Manhattan. He blinks tiredly against the plump curve of the pillow and for a moment he thinks everything is fine. He turns over and sits up, scraping his hands through his hair – and then his hands drop to his lap and he stops breathing, because everything in the room is floating.

He scrambles to his knees. The bed is a foot off the floor, with all the rest of the furniture. He looks around but there's no one else present. His watch and wallet are spinning gently on the air above the bedside table; the curtains are ruffling in a breeze, but the windows are closed. This shouldn't be possible and so he thinks it might be a dream, and he tries all of the clichés he can think of: he pinches the inside of his wrist, slaps at his face, opens and closes his eyes several times as though that will make him better able to see the truth. But gravity has not reasserted itself and he doesn't know what the truth is. He's suddenly afraid and he wants nothing more than for whatever this is to stop, to go back, because he knows if this continues he – he won't be safe, not anymore. And then, as though the thought triggered it, everything drops. He falls to his hands and knees on the bed, breathing fast and trying not to panic. He hopes to God the crash didn't wake his mother.

He doesn't fall back asleep. In the morning he takes a shower and doesn't bother shaving. He finds jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt because he can't stand the thought of suffocating in a suit all day. The maid is surprised to see him and offers to fetch his mother, who's breakfasting on the north balcony. He declines, as politely as he can manage, and steps out into the New York morning. It's June and it's beautiful, and he needs help.

He can't call Peter. Just the thought makes him nauseous. He can't deal with his mother because he can't tell her he's been lying this whole time. He crosses the street with dozens of people who don't recognize him outside of a tie and finds a bench in the park. There are so few he can trust, who would know what to do. He has to consciously relax his hands around his phone and lets his mind clear.

The decision, when it comes, feels right. Like it's something he's done before, something he's relatively comfortable with. He's not sure there will be an answer when he dials, but he closes his eyes and hopes, because this is the only time he will ask for help.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mohinder." He hears a sharp intake of breath. "Please don't hang up."

"Nathan?" Mohinder sounds uncertain. "Why are you calling me?"

"Mohinder," Nathan says again. His chest feels tight. "I need your help."

After everything that has happened he has no reason to expect cooperation, but Mohinder agrees to see him at the old apartment in Brooklyn. When he arrives the elevator is actually working: miracle of miracles. He's almost dizzy when he goes to knock on the door, but it opens before his fist even connects and Mohinder is suddenly there, staring at him.

Most of the furniture is gone. Nathan suspects that Danko's people cleared the place out, but he doesn't say anything. Mohinder gives him a cup of some fragrant tea and settles on the other side of the table, long brown fingers laced and resting in front of him. It's strange to think that he could cave in Nathan's skull with no effort.

"What seems to be the problem?" Mohinder says, smiling. He seems calm but Nathan knows just how tense he is.

Nathan wraps his hands around his mug. "I'm not sure." He clears his throat. Mohinder's eyes sharpen. "I haven't been feeling myself, ever since I got knocked out during that fight last month."

"With Sylar?"

Odd how Mohinder says the name. "I don't remember what happened," Nathan says. "When I woke up, my mom, Matt, and Bennet were all there. Said Sylar had knocked me out and left."

"I'm surprised he didn't kill you," Mohinder said. He looked up at the ceiling. "I think he would have enjoyed flying."

Nathan smiles briefly. "It's not all it's cracked up to be," he says.

He tells Mohinder about the gaps in time, the waking in strange places. He glosses over some of the darker thoughts, because he's pretty sure he can guess where those come from. When he mentions the sensation of discomfort in his own body Mohinder's eyes flicker and he seems suddenly distant.

Nathan knows that expression. He's seen it before. "Could this all be a result of the concussion?" he asks.

Mohinder is standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea. "I'm not sure. I would need to run tests to see if you're suffering brain damage. Unfortunately, I have no access to legitimate equipment."

Nathan looks around the apartment. The bowls sitting on the counter are obviously from Goodwill or some similar organization. There's a sleeping bag where the bed used to be. "I'm sure you've heard this before," he starts. Mohinder's shoulders go tense under the thin t-shirt. "…But how would you like a job?"

He flies back to Manhattan. From the roof of the house he calls Peter, asks if he wants to go to dinner. There's reluctant silence on the other end, but Nathan feels like things might finally be going his way and he won't be denied. He pulls out the big guns, childhood nostalgia, and offers to buy him a slice from the ancient place they used to go to when Pete was in fourth grade.

They meet and Pete orders a slice with everything but pineapple, just as he always did. Having the nothing talk face-to-face doesn't make it any easier, but once in a while Nathan can see Peter fighting a smile. On the sidewalk outside, Peter puts his hands in his pockets and looks up at the sky.

"So you're going ahead with Mom's plan, huh?"

Nathan goes still. "It's not going to be like it was, Pete. It really is about keeping people safe."

"I know you think it will be." He adjusts his messenger bag, clutching the strap loosely against his chest. When he finally turns to look at Nathan his eyes seem sad. "But how can you trust yourself, Nathan?"

"It's not just about me. You said it yourself. We have to work together, protect each other." He tries his damnedest to believe it, to make sure Peter doesn't see his uncertainty. "I've asked Suresh to help. We could use you, too. We need a conscience."

Peter looks down at the sidewalk. Nathan's struck, suddenly, by how vulnerable he is. How easy it would be to – convince him. Abruptly, Peter moves in for a hug and Nathan wraps his arms around him, because when Pete wants a hug he gets it. Because that's what he's supposed to do.

"I can't," Peter says, quiet against his shoulder. "You have to be your own conscience."

The next week Nathan has Mohinder installed in a new private lab in Virginia, a five minute flight from his office. He hasn't given Mohinder any directives. It seems as though it would be best to leave him to make his own choices, at least for now. He needs Mohinder to trust him.

He submits without complaint to a PET scan, an MRI, an EEG. Mohinder doesn't make a diagnosis. He has Nathan curl on his side on the exam table and holds him still with one hand while he takes a sample of cerebrospinal fluid with a lumbar puncture. It hurts, terribly, but Nathan closes his eyes and yields because it's necessary. Mohinder wouldn't do it if it weren't necessary.

He flies back to Washington while Mohinder works with the data he's been given. In his office he reads editorials on the role of government in protecting the citizenry, the paramount importance of strong national security, and whether the current administration has the people's rights to life and liberty at the forefront of their minds. He has a meeting with the director of the National Science Foundation. He avoids another call from his mother. On his voice mail, Bennet says they need to have a serious discussion soon about the direction of the Company; Peter says he's sorry about last week, and would he like to go to a Mets game sometime.

He tries to call Mohinder, but the phone is always busy.

Nathan wakes up at his desk. The afternoon light is streaming in behind him and he has a mess of reports scattered under his hands. Something has been nagging at him for over a week now, and he wishes he could just know what it was so he could  _fix_  it. He thinks that he has never been able to figure out exactly how things work, but now he feels like he has to try.

His mother walks into the office, a genuine smile on her face. It seems deterring her through the secretary will no longer suffice. He thinks that he should be grateful for her newfound warmth, her desire to do things right, this time. It's difficult.

They go to lunch. Sushi and white wine. His mother seems distracted, but she tells him about Bennet's work in recruiting people to work with the Company with admirable enthusiasm. He tells her about his latest talk with the president – he had seemed both wary and willing, which is probably the best they can hope for. His mother seems to be watching him much more closely this afternoon and he can't figure out why. She takes his hand across the table and asks the question.

"How are you feeling, Nathan?"

He smiles. "Mom, I'm fine," he says. He squeezes her hand. "Don't worry. I'm in control."

When he gets back to his office the secretary gives him his messages. The clock has gained another two seconds and he contemplates just smashing the damn thing and starting over, but quells the impulse. He settles at his desk and flicks through what he's missed. There's a call from his boys; a package from Costa Verde; and on the bottom, a short note from Mohinder.

It says to call immediately, that he has the diagnosis. Nathan takes a deep breath. Whatever it is, he can handle it. He's Senator Nathan Petrelli, and he can do anything he wants.

 

 


End file.
